


he knows he holds dominion over me

by electrique



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: F/M, implied shared history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7121194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electrique/pseuds/electrique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It populates her nightmares, the deepest, darkest possibilities of capture. Of being strung up and debased as a rebel, as a traitor. </p><p>His face populates her nightmares, his hands.  They curl around her throat. He drags his fingers across her lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he knows he holds dominion over me

**Author's Note:**

> i read his lips and i see glory / but what i hear is " _be afraid_."
> 
>  
> 
> does anyone know what i'm doing, b/c i definitely do not. 
> 
> (this is partially winterofherdiscontent's fault. i was peering into the abyss, but she just gave me a little nudge and i sort of fell headfirst into it. r.i.p. me)
> 
> this works with the assumption that jyn has a history with the empire, pre-rogue one.

“What will you do if they catch you?”

 

Gererra hisses it so disparagingly, Jyn grits her teeth and bares them like an animal provoked. As if she does not think about it every second of every day. Of every night. 

It populates her nightmares, the deepest, darkest possibilities of capture. Of being strung up and debased as a rebel, as a traitor. 

 

 _His face_ populates her nightmares, _his hands_.  

 

His hands curling around her throat. His fingers across her lips. 

Always gloved in white, meticulous and clean and careful. Jyn always thought it a curious habit, considering how much innocent blood had been spilt on his command. 

The color no longer symbolized purity for her after Krennic. 

It meant a strychnine coating of lies and deceit, of false promises and vows unkept, hiding only death underneath.

 

He was a man who had climbed atop a hill of these fallacies, made a kingdom of them, made pawns and soldiers to defend them, fashioned a god out of them to worship. 

 

He had offered her a throne atop his false kingdom, once. Offered to dress her in a gown of ivory to match his sacred robes.  

His words still rung in her ears.

_ “You’re tired of running, tired of fighting for a cause you can’t commit to.” _

 

For a damned liar, he had a way of piercing her heart with truths she could not deny.

There is hate in her bones and an unwillingness to bow to any man. They are alike in this way.

 

_"You could be so much **more** ,”_ he had whispered, icy blue eyes glittering in the dark like jewels in a cavernous expanse. 

 

Perhaps that was true, too. 

 

She had spit in his face in reply.

 

But she wouldn’t wait to find out.

 

(He knew this, he must've known this - because his smile, sharp like a knife, had never dulled.)

 

She would not _be more_ if it meant playing by his rules and living with the weight of the dead on her shoulders.   

She was no hero, no songs would be sung in her name. But she would not be an executioner, nor a witness to his massacres, atrophying at his side and casting blind eyes upon the horrors of the Empire.

Though he may have lost his sense of morality years ago, she still felt fear, _she_ still had a conscience.

 

They were why some nights she would wake up in a cold sweat, when she dreamt of his hands on her body, sleek gloved hands pulling her hair back, rough lips and wet tongue on her neck.  Familiar touches. Touches that left aches. 

 

Sometimes someone would hear her gasping, crying out in the barracks. They’d hear her, see the fear and regret in her dark rimmed eyes, ask sympathetically, “Night terrors?”

 

And she’d answer:

 

“Something like that.”

 


End file.
